The Sticking Beauty of Drag Racing

By Luke Durling  

For my friends John Force and Linda Bradley 

As my Dad and I walked and rolled down the right lane of the drag strip at Summit Motorsports Park in Norwalk, Ohio, our feet and rims stuck with the literal glue of black tar, surrounded by glittering bleachers that bore down the blue sky even harder than the sun itself. A tradition that we had missed the previous two years, hundreds of people stuck with us and trudged the length of the journey a dragster takes in mere seconds in the annual Trackwalk to open the final day of the NHRA Summit Racing Equipment Nationals. I had stood and stepped out on the track with Dad’s help before, even putting my feet down on the tar a couple times on this morning, but I had never been fully down the stretch before. As you would look down the barrel of the track, you could see nothing but a sky, the road beneath you and the blaze of bleachers enveloping you like eagle wings. As we walked, we heard nothing but the sound of feet pulling against liquid rubber, the sound of cartoons walking.

Ironically, the fastest wheeled vehicles on the planet run on its stickiest surface.

The pits mirror the strip itself, a never ending row of tents, trailers and cars, carts and scooters zooming up and down much like bees between two frames of comb, darting and dodging through the clumps of people. Family of rival brothers and sisters weave in and out of the street like a tribe of warriors longing for individual speed, yet a communal generosity. Teams literally teem with a furious clanging of wrenches, drivers, sockets and compressors until the pressure and anticipation becomes too much and crescendos with a sudden roar of primal metal twist with explosive intensity of fire. 

The test fire sends the sweetest smelling aphixiant of nitrous into the breeze, wafting into every crack of your corneas and sinuses until the sting is enough to make your head rush and your body to scream with the engine itself, scrambling for a moment out of the blissfully, blistering burn. 

The worst sunburn I or anyone has ever experienced can be gained without much time at the track. Even with all the best sunscreen and skin coverage, the rays will find you. With most of the time spent on asphalt or on metal bleachers, you learn to appreciate the power of the sun, which can exhaust you just by being there. The ride home from my two day festival of sound, speed and spirit was one of the most tired and tedious rides I’ve ever had. 

Going back to the tar from before, my arms and elbows are always so black and engrained with the ghosts of tires and the wear of oil that it takes several days and baths to get out. Almost as if my own wheels long for the speed of these galant people who make it a reality, tattoos it on me with the lure of a life dirty and grimy, but a life lived for the thrill of the moment. Life lived for the exhilarating, fleeting embrace of family, friends and neighbors who root for us and walk with us through the darkness, sparking the grit of oil and pain into wonder and chances mere inches, milliseconds away from the making. 

Sure, drag racing is not for the faint of heart, but to those who see the dirt and tar of life as a possibility rather than just a dirty word, the sport seeps into every fiber of your being and makes you shake before the waves ever rumble through your chest, before the light even hits yellow, because anything could happen when it does. The pain and fear of life is fleeting, the dirt on your elbows will wash away, but the chaotic thrill of it all is eternal. That is the point of drag racing: moments that leave you feeling so thrilled, every breath after feels just a little bit heavier, a little bit more valuable, because you have seen and/or experienced the impossible and want to experience it again, no matter how much tar you may walk or roll through to do it.